The Ballad of Harley Quinn COMPLETE
by Lexwing
Summary: Going crazy might be the shortest trip I've even taken. *From Harley's POV*
1. part 1

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 1

Author's Note: It's been cheering to see all the new Harley Quinn fanfic popping up inspired by Christopher Nolan's more realistic take on the Joker in _The Dark Knight_. I thought it might be interesting to do something similar, but from _her_ point of view--from inside Harley's head, as it were (eeek!). Fans will notice bits and pieces gleaned from Harley's comic and from other publications; however, I am not an expert in DC lore, so any errors/omissions/alterations are entirely my own.

--

I know there will be people out there who say I don't deserve my own story.

Because I'm a criminal.

Because I'm deranged.

Because I work for the Joker.

It seems to be the last bit that really sticks in the craw. Apparently being a sidekick, or henchwoman (and those are just the polite terms I've heard) to the Clown Prince of Crime puts me in a whole different category. I'm not your everyday female criminal in a mask and bodysuit.

I'm OK with that. Lord knows Gotham has plenty of those already.

But I'm writing this anyway, so people will know. So they'll know I wasn't always as I am now.

And that I am not a victim.

--

It had been my idea to treat the Joker.

I was in my first year of psychiatric residency after completing my degree at Gotham University. Doing the rounds at Gotham General--schizophrenics who couldn't afford their meds, the occasional suicidal intake.

Yawn.

I hadn't gotten into psychiatry to hold people's hands and pour pills down their throats.

I wanted to be the next Freud, the next Jung, the next B.F. Skinner.

I wanted a challenge.

And in Gotham City, if you want a challenge, it's right there in the Narrows.

Arkham Asylum. A place that both Gothamites and the American Medical Association have tried to forget. And it was just full of the kind of extreme cases I'd written about and studied for years.

Pamela "Poison Ivy" Isley. Harvey "Two-Face" Dent.

And "the Joker." Just "Joker." No real name, no date of birth, no other identifying information of any kind.

If I was going to carve out a name for myself, Arkham was the place to begin.

--

Dr. Bates, the latest in a long line of Asylum administrators, didn't see it that way..

On the phone he was quite polite. I was too young, he said, too inexperienced, no matter what my dissertation was about. Try again in a few years.

A few years, my fanny. I wanted that job.

And I always get what I want. Didn't I have a shelf full of trophies (track and field, gymnastics, skeet shooting, debate) at home to prove it? Hadn't I talked my way into Gotham U's graduate program, even though I'd spent more of my undergraduate years in the local bar than in the library?

I deluged Bates with phone calls. Faxes of my resume went out daily. I twisted the arms of my former advisors until they took up my cause, if only so I would stop haunting their offices. I mailed him multiple copies of every article I'd written. The article on shared psychotic disorder, much better known in the literature as _folie á deux_. The one on extreme personality disorders, using the infamous "Barbie and Ken" killers as a case study. My most recent one, on psychopaths as cultural touchstones in Gotham City.

It took a few months, but I broke him. I knew I would.

I got the job.

--

It turned out that I wasn't the only new gal in town. Dr. Bates hadn't been completely honest with me.

The other doctors were almost as green as I was, because Arkham went through staff like water through a sieve. The poor conditions, the stress, and the lack of funds, not to mention occasional bodily harm at the hands of the patients, meant most tours of duty there were short. The orderlies were usually the most experienced staff around. Many of them, I suspect, stayed on because they were sadists who took a little _too_ much pleasure in the job. But then I'm not one to judge.

During my first week at Arkham, Dr. Bates took me and the other staff psychologists and psychiatrists on a tour of the facility.

The upper floors of the facility were not that different from Gotham General, except that there were better external locks on the patient doors. Otherwise it was the same bad lighting, the same sickly paint colors, and the same acrid smell of disinfectant.

But the lower floors were what interested me. High security patients were kept here. There were bars on each landing, and staff members to control access on and off each floor. After one too many escapes, the individual cells had been outfitted with thick, bullet-proof glass instead of doors. It made it easier for security cameras to capture every move the inmates made.

--

Bates paused before each cell, introducing the cell's occupant to each physician in turn.

Some of the inmates (or "patients," as Dr. Bates insisted on calling them) cowered as we passed. Others were oblivious or unresponsive. The serious expressions and solemn glances of the white-coated doctors went largely to waste.

I can't say I was impressed with any of them. And the patients weren't much to look at, either. Bum, bum, bum. Anyhoo…

On the lowest floor, behind not one but two locked gates and three different sets of guards, were the most dangerous of all of Arkham's charges.

The Joker was kept here, at the far end, as far away from the access doors as they could get him.

He was standing in his cell as if waiting for us. I knew he'd been here for many months. At that time I imagined he knew the routine almost as well as the staff did.

I would later learn that he actually knew it better.

"Hello, Joker," Dr. Bates said to him.

"Good morning, Dr. Bates."

The Joker smiled, a small one, just being polite. But the Glasgow smile carved into his face made it appear the grin was stretching from ear to ear, as scar tissue on both sides of his mouth pulled taught.

Even without the make-up, it was fearsome site to behold.

As Dr. Bates began the introductions I took a moment to study the man.

Joker was wearing the same orange jumpsuit as the other inmates, but it looked spotless, as if it had just been cleaned and pressed. He wore the same standard issue black shoes as well, but his were polished. I knew from reading his files that he used to wear custom shoes with an exaggerated toe, so he could carry blades in them. Those had been confiscated, along with dozens of others knives, when he was admitted.

His greenish hair was lank, and he appeared to have lost some weight on an already lean frame. But he was enough like the photos I had carefully examined that I was pleased.

Here, I was certain, was my ticket to greatness.

--

It was that first day that the Joker also noticed me. Not romantically, I don't think, not yet, but he _did_ notice me.

Dr. Bates kept going through his spiel, rattling off each of our names in turn.

The Joker had not yet had an assigned therapist who'd lasted more than a few weeks. Two he had badly injured, and the other two had given up in frustration due to the patient's lack of progress. Dr. Bates often worked with Joker now, when he had the time. Otherwise Joker's therapist was whichever doctor was unwise enough to be caught without a full case load.

Mr. J must have known that one or all of us was going to end up opposite him in the therapy rooms. So he showed mild interest, but no more than that.

The other staff was careful not to make direct eye contact with him as they were introduced. They only nodded warily at him through the glass.

But I stepped right up when my turn came.

"And this is our newest staff member, Dr. Harleen Quinzel," Dr. Bates said.

The Joker's face lit up, or at least as much as such a pale complexion _could _light up.

"'Harleen Quinzel'! You know, if you lost a few letters you would be Harlequin."

I wasn't surprised that Joker made the connection. The one—and possibly the only—thing those who had examined Mr. J could agree upon was that he was intelligent. Very, very intelligent

Dangerously so, in fact.

"Do you know Harlequin?" He asked me.

I wanted to let him know I wasn't afraid of him.

"Yes. The 17th century Italian clown," I told him with a nod. "From the _Commedia dell'Arte_. I've heard that before."

His grinned widened, showing more teeth.

The two of us stood there for a moment, staring at each other across the barrier glass.

Now, of course, the part of me that loves Mr. J thinks that this was the first great moment in our epic romance. The part of me that hates him thinks this is where everything started to go wrong.

We must have stood and stared at each other for several minutes, because finally Dr. Bates cleared his throat.

"Ahem. Moving on then…"

I lingered behind for just a moment. It was terribly frustrating, to be so close to my object of interest but to not be able to stay.

Dr. Bates and the rest of the group were waiting for me.

"Goodbye, Mr. Joker," I said finally said.

"Goodbye, _Harley_," Joker drawled.

I don't know why he chose that moment to re-christen me. Perhaps he felt he could have a joke at my expense because everyone else was out of earshot. Or perhaps my name had already drawn his personal interest. I had known it would.

Either way I continued on the tour feeling quite pleased with myself.

--

The next step in my grand plan was to get assigned as Joker's therapist.

Let me be absolutely clear here. I may have been fresh out of medical school, but even then I knew there was no chance for rehabilitating Joker.

And, boy howdy, I sure know it now.

But I felt certain then that I could get through to him. Or at least through enough to give me what I wanted.

Data. Research material. Then fame.

I laid low for awhile, being a good employee, taking the routine cases I was assigned, biding my time.

I finally got my chance at a staff meeting. The battered conference table was piled high with case files, and everyone was arguing.

That's Arkham for you. Even the doctors are a bit cracked.

One of the psychologists, Dr. Nguyen, was complaining about Joker.

"All he does is talk in circles," Nguyen huffed. "How am I supposed to treat someone who can't keep his own stories straight? One session he tells me that he cut his own face, the next it's the story about a vat of chemicals."

"I got the story about the father," Dr. Lipinsky added. "He must know I'm a Freudian. One step forward, two steps back."

"Yeah, well, he bit _me_." Dr. Justi said loudly. A small woman, she shuddered and rubbed her forearm as if the wound hadn't healed properly. "And that was with two armed guards in the room."

Dr. Bates was the only relatively calm person there. He had been ignoring us and was shuffling papers from one pile to another.

"You know Joker prefers his past to be multiple choice," he now said patiently. "You have to humor him."

"I've been humoring him, but I can't take much more." Dr. Nguyen slumped back in his chair. "I'd rather sit with Killer Croc—at least you know where you stand with it. Uh, him."

After the new cases were distributed and the other staff members had begun filing out, I made my move.

"Dr. Bates, do you have a moment?" I leaned over him, making sure my white coat gaped alluringly at the neck. Hey, a girl's got to use all her weapons.

"Yes, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Dr. Bates, I was wondering if I might try a therapy session with the Joker. See if a fresh approach…"

Bates cut me off. "No."

"But I really think…"

"It took eight stitches to close the wound in Dr. Justi's arm," the administrator said shortly. "And Dr. Malone still can't see out of his right eye. The Joker's a killer, Dr. Quinzel."

"I know. And that's why I want to speak to him. My work on extreme personalities…"

"…has been largely theoretical up until this point," he corrected. "I don't think you know what you are dealing with here. I'm not sure _I_ know what we are dealing with, and I've been a psychiatrist for more than twenty years."

"Dr. Bates, with all due respect, this is what my whole career has been preparing me for. Just one session, that's all. I'll have security right there."

Seeing the skeptical look on his face, I used my ace in the hole.

"You saw how he reacted to my name, to the whole 'Harlequin' connection. I think I may have an in there. How many new doctors has the Joker actually had a conversation with? A real conversation, not just 'tell me about your mother'?"

"A few sentences are not a conversation, Dr. Quinzel."

He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. I knew I had won.

"All right. It's against my better judgment, but I'll give you your shot. One session."

"Thank you, sir," I gushed. "You won't be sorry."

"No, I won't," he said flatly. "But you may very well be."

--

Arkham was a pit. The hole at the end of the universe. All seven levels of Date's hell rolled into one. But it was still an asylum, and we still had to "treat" our patients, as best we could.

There were special meeting rooms for therapy sessions with high security patients. Rather than risk bringing them upstairs, and thus exponentially increasing the danger to the staff, there were two grimy, windowless spaces set aside for such a use. They were outfitted with two chairs, a small table that had been nailed down, and an overhead light that buzzed incessantly. The only other light came in through a small glass panel set high in the steel door. It wasn't much. The hallway outside was windowless, too.

In other words, they were just like every other institutional therapy room I'd even been in. Working with psychotics and sociopaths doesn't lend itself to cushy surroundings.

I was in one of those rooms waiting, with pads of paper and specially-made, blunt-tipped pencils stacked on the table. I'd considered bringing my voluminous files, but had decided at the last minute that those could wait.

There would be other sessions. I would see to that.

The Joker was brought in wearing handcuffs. Two orderlies with necks as thick around as my thigh were on either side of him.

Mr. J ignored them and sat down one of the plastic chairs. Its metal feet scraped like fingernails across the tile floor.

I smiled sweetly at the larger of the two orderlies. His badge read "Smithee," and there were guns strapped to either side of his hips. Loaded, I'm sure.

The top of my head barely reached his shoulder.

"Wait outside, please."

The mound of a human being peered down at me in surprise. "'Scuse me, doctor?"

I smiled again. "I have clearance from Dr. Bates for a private session. I'm sure you must have gotten the memo?"

The orderlies exchanged confused glances.

"Of course, if you want to trouble Dr. Bates you may certainly call upstairs." I looked thoughtful. "Although as I understand it he is in a meeting with one of our donors and may not like being interrupted. Mr. Joker is handcuffed, after all, and the panic button is right over there if I need it." I pointed to the grimy white button next to the door.

It took several seconds for the larger orderly to process what "interrupting" Dr. Bates might cost him, weigh that against my argument, and to decide in my favor.

"We'll be right outside the door if you need us," he finally offered.

"Of course."

The other orderly, whose tag read only "Jed," gave Joker a look filled with loathing.

"Don't take off his cuffs, no matter what he says," he told me.

Joker cocked his head and batted his eyelashes at the orderly. Jed took a menacing step forward before his friend grabbed his shoulder.

"Right outside," Smithee repeated to me.

The two men left, and the steel door closed with a resounding clang behind them.

We were alone.

"Hello again, Mr. Joker. My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. We were introduced a few weeks ago. Remember?"

Joker seemed to have temporarily run out of mirth. He just looked at me.

"You called me 'Harley"? As in "Harlequin'? Well, anyway, I'm a psychiatrist and Dr. Bates thought you might like to speak to me."

Even to my own ears my voice sounded a little weak.

Joker now smiled at me. But it was quite unlike any smile I had ever seen before. There was no joy in it, no real human expression at all. It was an empty smile, like the Cheshire Cat after it had faded away, leaving only its grin behind.

I was losing his attention. _Snap out of it Harl_, I ordered myself. _Don't blow this!_

"My colleagues tell me you're quite the talker, and that you like to argue philosophy. I was always very good at that subject."

In an attempt to seem engaging I sat down on the edge of the table, so I was closer to Joker's eye level. "Perhaps you'd care to argue philosophy with me?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Dr. Quinzel."

And before I could ask him why, or why he was back to calling me 'Dr. Quinzel,' the Joker had lunged forward and grabbed my neck in his hands. Even with his hands manacled together he had absolutely no trouble squeezing my windpipe until my breath was gone.

He slammed me backwards against the table. I hit my head and saw stars.

_Stupid, stupid move, Harley_, a little voice said. _You got too close, didn't you?_

_Mind if we argue about this later? I'm dyin' here._

My vision was swimming, and little starbursts of light were darting across the backs of my eyelids. Dying cells, squeezing their last bits of electricity into my body.

Joker was still smiling down at me. Even though I had my hands on top of his there was no way I could pry them free. He was too strong, far stronger than he appeared.

The panic button was three feet away. It might as well have been a mile.

His thumb shifted for just a moment, and I was able to suck in a small breath.

And then I laughed.

I couldn't help it. I don't know why I laughed.

I still don't.

Joker looked startled, and his grip loosened.

Gasping in another, deeper breath, I laughed so hard that Joker let go of my throat.

Limp as a rag I fell off the edge of the table and landed on the cold tile floor. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs, but I didn't care. I had never realized oxygen was so intoxicating.

I took in another rattling breath, and nearly choked as I started to laugh again.

"You're…you're really predictable, you know that?" I spluttered.

I couldn't see Joker very well through the haze of tears in my eyes, but he looked confused. And a little hurt.

He turned away from me.

"It was just a joke," he said sullenly.

I coughed again and again, trying to clear my throat. By that evening it would be so bruised I would barely be able to swallow. I rolled onto my side, and then onto my knees.

There was banging on the door.

"Dr. Quinzel? Everything all right? Thought we heard something."

I laughed again. The thick steel had muffled everything that had just taken place.

I pulled myself to my feet using the edge of the table. I was shaking badly, but managed to get to my chair and sit down.

"Everything's fine," I croaked. "Just knocked something over, is all."

Never mind that there wasn't anything in the room to knock over, except me.

I looked at Joker again. He still had his back to me, like a cross child whose game had been spoiled.

I thought about apologizing for laughing. I decided not to.

He finally turned his head and looked at me, really _looked _at me.

His eyes narrowed as if he wasn't certain what he was looking at, or he hadn't decided whether or nor he liked what he saw.

I tidied up the pads of paper and folded my arms on the table.

It wasn't an auspicious beginning, but I'd take it.

"Shall we begin again, Mr. Joker?"

He stared at me for another second or two. Then he threw back his head and laughed, loudly and, I think, genuinely. He sat down again in his own chair and imitated my posture, also folding his arms.

"Fine, _Harley Quinn_. Let's begin again."

And we did.


	2. part 2

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 2

--

"What's the first thing you can remember?" I asked Mr. J.

"I can remember…what I had for breakfast this morning. Does that help?"

"You know it doesn't. Now me, I can remember being in my crib. I can remember being given a stethoscope for my second birthday."

"A stethoscope? Really?"

"Yeah, well, doctor for a mother, lawyer for a father—what are ya going to do? I was lucky it wasn't a copy of the _Law Review_." I winked.

Mr. J. laughed.

I smiled. It was all going according to plan.

Our initial session hadn't started out well, but the Joker and I soon found a common footing.

I'd ask questions, he'd dance around them, I'd try a different approach, he'd respond with different questions. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry. It was kind of fun. And more importantly Joker began dribbling out just enough tidbits that Dr. Bates was happy.

Yours truly was now Joker's official therapist. Twice a week, although I would soon be lobbying to make it three.

I was happy. God, was I happy.

--

Contrary to what you may have read in those gossip rags, Mr. J and I were not going at it like crazed weasels every time we met in a therapy session.

I wasn't after sex. As much as I love Mr. J now, such a possibility hadn't even occurred to me at that point.

_But Harley, didn't you know?_ They'll ask. _You know, __know__?_

Look, if someone told you that you were about to fall head over heels in love with a psychotic clown, would you believe them?

Didn't think so.

And I mean, security is lax in Arkham, but do you know how many cameras there are in that place? I have a cute little tush, if I do say so myself, but no way would I have been caught on film, under fluorescent lights, in _flagrante delicto, _with anybody.Yipes.

It was all quite chaste. Just talking. Joker loved to talk.

"What did you think of my little ferry lark last year?" He asked me one day, after we'd been working together for a few months.

I wrote the word "ego" on my pad and drew little squiggles around it.

"I think it must have taken an awful lot of work and planning on your part," I answered honestly.

I had been in town at the time, but unlike most Gothamites I had known enough to take a madman at his word. I had proceeded down to my local bar and gotten so hammered that by the time I had sobered up the whole mess had been over.

"It did, Harley, it did," Joker continued. "Most people don't appreciate that." He stood up and started pacing, gesturing with his manacled hands. "Batman certainly didn't."

I added "Batman" to the pad, and drew a little bat shape around it.

This was a topic Joker frequently returned to in our sessions. The Batman had thwarted him. That's the only thing I had been able to discover that really bothered Joker about his last spree. Not the dead. Not emotional and psychological damage to the city.

Just Batman. Joker couldn't get over it.

"Never mind the Batman. What made you come up with such a scheme?"

He gave me a sly smile, the same one he always used when he didn't want to reveal any more. "Just a joke, Doctor. Just a joke."

I set down my pencil. "But one that didn't work."

"I know that!" He snarled. Rage blew through him like a sudden storm. He seemed taller, darker, and all of a sudden the room seemed far too small for the two of us.

It was in these moments I glimpsed the Joker the rest of Gotham City knew.

This time, however, his rage was short-lived. Abruptly his shoulders slumped, and his head bowed so that hair fell across his face.

"It should have worked."

It was taking a risk, but I spoke up anyway.

"It didn't work because there were too many variables," I told him.

He looked at me with that puzzled, tilted-head expression he often used. I think he had momentarily forgotten I was in the room.

"Excuse me?"

"You were saying, rhetorically, I think, that your plan to blow up those ferries in Gotham harbor should have worked. I gave you an answer. There were too many people involved, and thus too many variables. For all you know most people on those ships really _did_ want to blow each other up, but one good person on each boat made the decisions for them. I don't think you can feel responsible for that."

It was an odd and rather nonsensical answer, but it seemed to console him.

"You're right, Harley. I never looked at it quite that way. Two good eggs, one in each basket, spoiled a perfectly rotten omelet."

"Glad I could help. That is what I'm here for, after all." I resumed writing. I had already filled boxes with my notes. No one else had seen them yet, not even Dr. Bates. They were for my eyes only.

Joker abruptly changed emotional gears again, this time to his more manic but charming state. He sat down in the chair opposite me and leaned forward.

"Did you get the flowers?"

My pencil froze in mid-sentence. A cluster of flowers in a red vase had turned up in my office a few days before. No card. At the time I had assumed they must have been wrongly delivered.

"That was you?"

He tilted his head back and smiled.

Of course, deep down I suppose I knew that it had to have been him. I wasn't sure what to think. Or was I?

"I think Dr. Bates would be interested to know you've got someone running errands for you outside of the asylum, Joker. Is it the same person who keeps you in clean jumpsuits?"

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in that odd way he had.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, Harl."

"Why?" I asked, quite honestly.

"Why not? I'm a nice guy." His brow furrowed. "At least, I _think_ I am. Or was. Anyway, you said you liked roses, remember?"

"Actually, I don't."

"Ah, Harley." He smiled engagingly. "I remember everything you ever told me."

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that.

"I think we've talked enough for today."

Quick as a serpent he slid forward. He grabbed my wrists in his hands, pinning them to the table.

I now knew enough not to try to outmatch him in physical strength, so I didn't try to pull away. I knew I would be bruised the next day.

"Let go of me, please," I told him calmly.

But he continued with his previous train of thought.

"See, here's the thing," he told me, his voice slipping into a low, almost husky growl. "I _know_ you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew everything there is to know about you. Now, most women, they don't want much out of life. A husband, a couple of squalling kids, maybe a dog, that's about it. But not you. You've got bigger ambitions, am I right?"

I'd dealt with difficult patients before. It comes with the territory in my line of work. Once, I was bitten by a suicidal candy salesman. Another time a psychotic was only able to answer my questions by barking like a dog. Joker himself had tried to kill me at our first meeting.

But this was getting out of control. It was turning into an interrogation, and I didn't like it one bit. I squirmed in my chair.

"But the thing is, Harl, the thing is, I don't think you know what it is you really want. I mean, what you want deep down, in your heart of hearts, at night when it's dark and nobody else is around to hear or see you."

I had had enough.

"Guards!" I yelled over my shoulder.

"In fact, I think deep down you have no idea who you really are, do you?" Joker asked as the security guards slammed the door open.

He didn't let go of my wrists, even when the officers grabbed him by the arms and yanked him backwards. I still had to pull hard to get free.

"Who are you, Harley Quinn?" He asked me, his voice rising as he was wrestled to the ground. "Who are you, really?"

I fled.

--

The next day I cancelled my morning appointments. Instead I passed the time brooding in an armchair in Arkham's staff lounge.

I suppose I could have stayed home to brood, but to be honest I suddenly didn't care much for my tastefully decorated condo. I had gone home the night before and put ice on my wrists to minimize the bruises left by Joker's long fingers. My sleep had been troubled, full of dreams I couldn't quite remember when I woke up.

I didn't really care about my bruised wrists, anyway. It was the bruises on my pride that hurt more. All those years of training, emphasizing self-examination and the power of the mind, and I had let the Joker get under my skin. The Joker, of all people. And I couldn't figure out _why_.

Arkham's other doctors were gathered around the table, drinking the sludge that passed for coffee at the asylum. The running joke was that we all hoped our next intake would be a deranged _barista_.

"So, Quinzel, nailed down a diagnosis on the Joker, yet?" Dr. Nguyen asked me. "My vote is still for paranoid schizophrenic."

"Nah. I'm telling you, he's disassociative, like Dent," Dr. Lipinsky added.

"Sociopathic," an intern chimed in.

"How about all of the above?" This last from Dr. Malone, who had recently returned to work with a patch over his right eye. He only worked the upper floors of the asylum now.

They were all looking at me expectantly.

I scrunched down lower in my chair. "I haven't decided yet."

"How about his 'how-I-got-my-scars' stories? You got a favorite one of those yet?" The intern asked me.

I felt a bit surer answering this one. "I believe there is probably some truth in all of them. But I'm leaning towards the one about his father. First of all, because that's the one he tells me most frequently, and yet it changes the least between tellings. And, second, because severe childhood trauma would do a great deal to explain why he clings to the Joker persona."

After all, even a normal childhood could leave scars. Look at my own. I had been given everything I ever wanted. And I'd still become a textbook overachiever to get (and keep) my parents attention. I had been a bit of a third wheel attached to that happy pair. They'd been so enamored of each other they'd fused their two names to make mine. Harlan and Aileen. Harleen. Ugh. They'd even gone so far as to die within a year of each other when I was still in college.

"You'd better come up with a classification quick, Harleen, before Bates rotates you onto another case," Nguyen told me, snapping me back to the present.

I sat up straight.

"He wouldn't do that. The Joker and I are…making progress."

Dr. Justi, who until now had been silent, snorted derisively. "Sure you are."

The other doctors exchanged smirks.

I was honestly flabbergasted at the hostility suddenly oozing from them.

"What does that mean?"

Dr. Malone cleared his throat. "I think I'd better get to my rounds."

Dr. Nguyen stood up hastily. "Me, too."

The two fled the room, the pimply-faced intern hot on their heels.

I narrowed my eyes.

"I'd like you to explain you previous comment, Dr. Justi. The one about me and the Joker."

I was genuinely hurt. I had never said an unkind word to this woman; in fact, I doubt I had said more than two words to her my entire time at Arkham.

"You're not fooling anybody, Quinzel. I mean, look at you—the blond hair, the lab coats that are a hair too tight. You're not here to be a doctor."

I finally allowed my voice to rise. "You know, I'm getting pretty damn tired of people telling me what I am and what I am not."

"Everyone knows you wanted to work with the Joker because you think he'll be your big breakthrough. Get your name in all the papers. Get you on the cable news shows as one of their 'experts.'"

"Who's 'everyone'?"

"All of us—the doctors, the staff." Her face was serious now. "You don't get it, do you? Even if you made some progress with Joker—real progress, not just some scribbles in a notebook no one else is allowed to see—it wouldn't matter. No one's interested in what goes on in his head. In fact, the only thing the general public ever wants to hear about him again is that he's dead."

I sucked in a sharp breath. "That's a horrible thing to saw about one of Arkham's patients."

"Maybe so, but it's the truth. The others have been tiptoeing around you for months, but I'm telling you this for your own good. Drop the Joker. Find yourself a nice private practice somewhere. You're not cut out for Arkham."

"Get out."

"Gladly." Dr. Justi paused with her hand on the doorknob. "The funny thing is, I don't dislike you, Quinzel. I kind of admire your guts. But you can't keep pretending forever."

As the door closed behind her, I took a deep breath. Unaccountably I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over.

I pinched myself hard until they subsided.

Then I closed my eyes.

_Physician, heal thyself._


	3. part 3

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 3

--

Author's note: Due to technical problems I had to remove this story and re-post it. I apologize to those of you whose kind feedback on part 1may have been accidentally deleted.

As Harley herself might say, "Oopsy. My bad." Please do re-post when you have a chance.

--

"You're angry, aren't you, Harley?"

"Hmm?"

I looked up to see Mr. J across from me, clearly waiting for me to speak.

"Oh, sorry. What were we discussing?"

He waved his manacled hands airily. "I already forgot. You're angry about something."

He scooted his chair closer. "Tell me."

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't think that would be appropriate, Mr. Joker. And you really should call me 'Dr. Quinzel.' That is, after all, my name. 'Harley' is not."

Joker nodded sagely. "Definitely angry. You know, that's an unhealthy emotion to keep bottled up inside. That's why I never do."

I rubbed my temples. I had waited a week before resuming therapy with my patient. Time for me to recover from his last little speech, and from Dr. Justi's insight that my colleagues thought I was a joke.

No pun intended.

I had decided I really shouldn't care what the other doctors thought.

_I_ was the one with the guts to sit across the table from the most feared man in Gotham, while they hid out upstairs. So what if they thought I was using Joker? I was a specialist in extreme personalities, after all. Hanging out with a few depressives and addicts wasn't going to teach me what I needed to know.

They were just jealous. Besides, Dr. Bates' opinion was the only one that mattered. He seemed to have no objections to how I was handling the case, so long as I kept Joker out of his hair.

It had taken me several late nights, lubricated with gin and tonics, to realize that it was the Joker's comments that had really riled me up. Dr. Justi's had just been the icing on the cake. The cherry on the sundae. The cheese on the pizza. The…

"Dr. Quinzel?" The Joker was waving his fingers in front of me. "You're drifting again."

"I was remembering what you said to me the last time we were together. Do you remember, Mr. Joker?"

"Hmm. Afraid not."

"You said that I didn't know who I was."

"Did I?"

I took a deep breath. "It isn't true. I know exactly who I am."

Joker looked thoughtful for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "If you say so, doc."

I slammed my hand down on the table with such force that we both jumped.

"I know who I am," I repeated.

"It's all right, Doctor Quinzel. I believe you."

I couldn't quite read Mr. J's expression. But I think he almost looked sad.

--

Up in my office I worked on my Joker wall.

It was my collection of press clippings, articles, photographs, and a few of my own notes and sketches. I made it because I hoped visualizing what I knew might make it coalesce into something coherent, something suitable for a scholarly article or even a book. A man's psyche, spread out across a vertical and horizontal surface.

And what a psyche it was. It was obvious to me, now that we had been working together for so long, why no one had ever been able to pin a diagnosis on Mr. J.

He didn't want them to.

At times he was clearly psychotic, raging at the world and everyone in it. This was the darkest Joker, the one that I most feared, the one most capable of tearing the world apart if we allowed him to.

At times he seemed more like a paranoid schizophrenic, particularly when it came to what he viewed as persecution at the hands of the Batman. (In fact, the Batman continued to loom so large for Joker that I gave Bats his own little section of my Joker wall, down by the trash can. I thought that was appropriate.)

Mr. J was also a classic narcissist, determined that everyone know how smart he was, and how funny. That's why he cooked up so many elaborate schemes, when often a simple bullet would have sufficed.

He also showed the tell-tale signs of having suffered emotional and possibly physical abuse. And I don't just mean the scars. Although he told many different stories about his life, all of them shared common themes of violence, betrayal, and suffering. Whoever he had once been, that man had always been on the receiving end of other people's cruelty.

So the Joker persona was now beating them to the punch.

The rest of the time he appeared quite sane, albeit more than a little eccentric. His sense of humor was definitely warped, and his fashion choices inexplicable at best. But eccentricity, as any first-year psych student can tell you, is not the same as insanity.

The Joker could be polite, even courtly. That was the Joker capable of sending me flowers.

The man was either a walking diagnostic manual for mental illness, or one hell of an actor.

Or maybe he was both.

The Joker persona was, I became increasingly convinced, not really a persona at all. It was who he was.

I have to admit now that I wasn't doing too well managing Joker's treatment. With each session he seemed to know more about me, and I knew less about him. But it was clear that no amount of psychotropic drugs, no amount of talk therapy, was going to bring that other man back. Whoever he had been was gone.

That left only Joker.

Sometimes I worked on my wall late into the night, shifting bits of information from one spot to another. Eventually I gave up on looking for a story, and simply focused on trying to uncover the man himself.

_And that was when you started to love him, wasn't it Harley?_

Maybe. I don't know.

_Liar._

--

I knew enough now to be a lot more careful around Joker.

I insisted he call me by my real name.

I didn't share with him any more anecdotes from my own life.

I was beginning to feel back in control of our sessions again.

I had also convinced Dr. Bates that Joker was calm enough to be brought upstairs for our therapy sessions.

When he first saw the room Joker admitted he was a little disappointed that there wasn't one of those black couches, like in the movies. But otherwise he seemed pleased with the change of venue. This therapy room at least had a window, even if it was heavily barred. Outside dead leaves scuttled past, carried on cold November winds.

We were in the middle of a conversation about the morality of modern policing. Joker, anarchist that he was, was insisting that there was no need for police in contemporary society. He maintained that if we all had individual free will then we should all be able to run our own affairs without interference, thank you very much.

I was half-heartedly trying to point out the holes in that argument when his expression abruptly changed.

"I'm a bit worried about you, Dr. Quinzel."

I looked up from my notepad. I had been drawing nothing but squiggles for the last half hour.

"Me? Why?"

"You look tired. Aren't you sleeping?"

I stifled a yawn. "I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Joker," I lied. "But I think it's a good sign that you thought to ask."

I knew that I had circles under my eyes, and that the bun on top of my head was lopsided. I didn't need him to tell me that.

I'd never suffered from insomnia before, not even during my qualifying exams. I'd prescribed myself some Xanax and Valium to help me sleep, but I don't think I'd gotten more than a few winks a night in months.

"Maybe you need a vacation," Joker suggested, leaning back in his chair. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it? Some place where they put those little umbrellas in your drinks. You'd like that."

I rubbed my eyes. "Maybe. So, we were discussing policing and the concept of moral order."

But his attention span had moved on. He just shrugged.

"You shouldn't be in this dreary place," he mused.

"So my colleagues say."

It slipped out before I knew what I was saying. I quickly snapped my mouth shut, but it was too late.

"Yes, they don't like you very much. I've noticed that, too."

Now I was humiliated as well as exhausted. Oh, god.

"But never mind them. If I worried what other people thought of me, where would I be?" The Joker stretched out his arms and grinned.

I didn't bother pointing out that people _didn't_ like him, and that he was in Arkham Asylum.

After all, so was I.

"Harley--may I call you Harley again for a moment, Doctor?"

I nodded dumbly.

He leaned forward. "You really should ask yourself why you care what any of those people think."

"I don't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't hear me.

Instead he shot a skeptical glanced at his surroundings. "Those people have the nerve to call this place an asylum. An _asylum_, for crying out loud. But you know, and _I_ know, that's there's no peace here, not for anyone."

Tears began to sting my eyes. I blinked them back, hoping my lashes would hide them.

He put his hands (still cuffed--I hadn't talked Dr. Bates out of those yet) over mine.

"Poor Dr. Quinzel," he said softly. "And poor Harley Quinn."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't my idea, honest it wasn't.

He just leaned across the table, grabbed the lapels of my white coat, and planted one on me.

--

_What's it like kissing the Joker?_ You ask.

It's like grabbing a live electric wire and feeling the current race through your body.

It's like standing on the edge of the highest diving board, and letting one of the other kids push you off.

It's like laughing as a shark bites your leg and drags you under the surf.

It wasn't like anything else I'd ever experienced in my life.

I didn't push him away. I should have, but I didn't.

--

He had to break it off first.

He let me go and sat back in his own chair.

My lips were bruised.

"Why did you do that?" I asked him. I didn't recognize the sound of my own voice.

"You looked so serious. I wanted to make you smile," he told me.

_Damn damn damn damn damn damn…_

--

Since I hadn't been sleeping before anyway, you can imagine what that night was like.

I washed down two Valiums with some warm milk, and then lay in bed staring into the darkness. I watched the shifting moonlight draw patterns on my ceiling.

I couldn't get comfortable, no matter what position I tried. The luxurious mattress I'd chosen with such care might as well have been full of rocks.

Slowly the glowing red numbers on my digital clock counted down to midnight, and slowly they began counting up again.

1 AM.

I knew I should get up, try to do something productive to keep my mind occupied.

I didn't move.

_What was happening to me?_

2 AM.

_I'm frightened._

3 AM.

_Someone help me._

At 3: 23 AM I was jolted by the ringing of my cell phone.

I stuck my head out from under my pillow and fumbled for it. On the third ring I finally managed to flip it open.

"Hello?" My tongue felt thick from the drugs.

"Dr. Quinzel?"

"Speaking."

"This is Detective Bullock of the Gotham P.D. We need you at Arkham. Now."

I sat up in bed.

"It's Joker, isn't it?"

_Oh god._


	4. part 4

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Author's Note: Turns out Harley's head isn't the prettiest place to be (surprise!), so if you're reading this, please do leave me some feedback. I'm trying to decide how far to go with it, as it's been more emotionally difficult to write than I thought it would be. I had seven parts in mind originally, but we'll have to see.:)

Part 4

I arrived at an asylum in chaos.

The large searchlights, which I knew were on top of the building but had never seen illuminated, were sweeping back and forth across the grounds. Armed patrolmen were prowling through the bushes. Others were stringing crime scene tape across the wide, curving driveway.

I knew it would be no use.

A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles out front. There were ambulances, but no one seemed to be in a hurry.

It was bad. Very bad.

A patrolwoman stopped my car. But as soon as I told her who I was and showed her my badge she waved me through.

I hastily parked and jumped out. I hadn't had time to dress properly; I was wearing my coat over my pajamas. Hopefully no one would notice. At least I had had the sense to put on a decent pair of shoes.

I rushed up to Dr. Bates. He was in the shadows close to the building. His hair was standing on end, like he'd been raking his hands through it.

"Dr. Bates? What's happened?"

"Dr. Quinzel, thank god." He took me by the elbow and turned me about. "Detective Bullock, here is Dr. Quinzel."

The man who emerged from a huddle of police officers looked straight out of central casting. He was squat, almost as wide as he was tall. His hat was squashed down over his forehead, and there was an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He was even wearing a trench coat.

He squinted at me. "You're Dr. Quinzel, huh?"

"Yes, I am. Will someone please tell me…"

"That's her?" Another voice rang out.

"Yep." Bullock shouted back as a helicopter that swooped overhead.

Another figure, a taller man, also detached from the group and joined us.

This man was also in a trench coat, but what looked clichéd on Bullock looked immensely dignified on him. He was fast approaching middle age--his temples were brushed with silver. The eyes behind the square-framed glasses were uncommonly intelligent. I recognized him from the television immediately. Police Commissioner Gordon.

"Dr. Quinzel, is there somewhere we can talk, somewhere quieter?" He asked me.

I glanced helplessly over at Dr. Bates.

"We can use my office," Bates volunteered.

Gordon nodded. His frown deepened as several news trucks screeched to a halt at the opposite end of the driveway. In a moment reporters were swarming the police cordon like locusts.

"Sanchez, get down there and make sure nobody crosses that line!" Gordon roared. "The scene isn't secured yet."

A young man scurried to join his fellow officers, holding back the crowd.

"Dr. Quinzel, after you."

As the four of us stepped through the doorway I caught a glimpse of something, a dark shape, looming over the edge of the roof. Watching us. But when I blinked it was gone.

The facility of the facility was lit up like daylight, with a dozen or more uniformed officers rushing about. I could hear the patients, still locked in their rooms, wailing and crying.

The glass security booth by the front doors had been shattered, and smears of what looked like blood ran from there across the marble floor.

I felt dizzy.

As soon as Bates' office door closed behind us, Bullock wheeled on me.

"Where's Joker?'

"I—I'm sorry?" I stammered.

"You know who I mean."

My stomach felt like it had suddenly dropped into the basement. "He's gone?"

"You know he is," Bullock said, leaning into me until I took an involuntarily step backwards.

"Detective, I assure you…" Bates began. But the detective cut him off.

"I'll get to you in a second, Doc."

Gordon now spoke up. "That's enough, Bullock. Let's start over. Dr. Quinzel, you don't look too good. Would you like to sit down?"

I could barely hear him over the blood roaring in my ears. "Yes, please."

He guided me to the sofa, and a moment later a glass of cool water was pressed into my hand. I took a careful sip.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "I really don't understand what's going on. I was asleep," I said helplessly.

Gordon's expression was serious, but kind.

"At approximately 2 AM this morning the criminal known as the Joker escaped from Arkham Asylum."

"Escaped?" I looked at Dr. Bates. "How?"

"We don't know yet." His voice sounded strangled. "He was in his cell at 1AM when security did their rounds. The staff didn't discover he was gone until three."

"And at 3:01 they called us. Joker killed two guards before he escaped, Dr. Quinzel. A third is already on his way to Gotham General." Gordon frowned. "He may not make it."

"You were the Joker's doctor, right?" Bullock chimed in. "You've been inside that greasy head of his. So tell us what you know. Where were you last night?"

My mind was working frantically, but I was having trouble forming any coherent thoughts.

"Let's see…uh…I worked late. I clocked out at about seven."

Gordon looked at Bullock expectantly.

"Yes, we've confirmed that," Bullock conceded.

"And then…let's see…I went by Pepe's on 23rd for a slice of pizza. And then I went home."

All of which was true.

Gordon pulled over a chair and sat down next to me.

"Dr. Quinzel, Joker is loose in Gotham City. I don't have to tell you what happened the last time."

I mutely shook my head.

"You had a therapy session with him yesterday afternoon, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Did he say or do anything, give you any indication, that he was planning something like this?"

"Of course not!"

"Think, Dr. Quinzel," Dr. Bates urged. "You know what Joker's like. You may not have immediately picked up on it."

I thought hard. Everything leading up to kiss seemed a bit of a blur. And I wasn't about to tell them about _that_.

_He'd said…he'd said…_

My eyes widened. "He said something about a vacation."

Gordon and Bullock exchanged glances.

"He said he thought I needed a vacation. Something about umbrella drinks…I didn't take it seriously. He never said anything that suggested he was planning an escape." I looked desperately at my boss. "Dr. Bates, you know if there had been even a hint…"

"Yes, Dr. Quinzel, I know," he soothed. "We're not impugning your integrity. But no one has ever escaped from the new high security wing before. We're all still in a state of shock."

"And while you're in shock Joker's out there doing god knows what." Bullock chewed even harder on his cigar. "Seems to me you people were asleep at the wheel."

Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We'll need copies of your files, anything the staff has that might lead us to Joker."

"Of course," Bates vowed.

I thought of the file boxes I'd hidden in my bedroom closet. They contained my personal notes and audio tapes of therapy sessions. I'd violated Arkham policy and started taking them home when my office got too cluttered. Everyone did it.

The Gotham P.D. didn't need to know about those, not yet. Surely Joker would be safely back in Arkham in a few days.

I took a deep breath.

"Will you find him?" I asked solemnly.

"Oh yes, Dr. Quinzel." Gordon's eyes were steely. "We'll find him."

I don't think he knew what I meant. But so long as he brought the Joker back, I didn't care.

--

But Gordon was wrong.

For weeks there was no word. Detectives trooped in and out of Arkham. We were interviewed, and then interviewed again. I dismantled the Joker wall in my office, carefully hiding the clippings in my medical books, before the police could find it on their own.

But otherwise I was perfectly cooperative.

I wanted Joker back in Arkham, where I could keep an eye on him.

_Really, Harley? Is that why you wanted him back?_

_Shut up._

The Gotham P.D. had done their best to keep news of the Joker's escape quiet. But of course they failed.

The police watched the ferries. They watched the airport. They watched the train stations. The FBI was called in.

I told them I didn't think Joker would try to leave Gotham. But I guess they didn't believe me.

I prayed that I was wrong, and that Joker was long gone.

At first the city was in an uproar. The Christmas shopping season was about to begin, and there was a psychotic clown on the loose. But in that joyous holiday season, the Joker's escape was soon eclipsed by other news.

That worried me. I knew he wouldn't like that one bit.

And he didn't.

Joker waited until the week before Christmas to reappear.

He had come up with a new plan. One involving a substance of his own creation. Apparently he called it Joker venom.

See what I mean? Ego.

It was an airborne neurotoxin. It caused uncontrollable laughter, convulsions, a gruesome grin, and, ultimately, death. Scientists were scrambling to create an antidote, but so far, no luck.

He was holding Gotham hostage, striking randomly across the city. He threatened to release the venom on the entire population. He wouldn't say why.

I told Bullock that Joker did not, in fact, want anything, and that he was more than capable of releasing the neurotoxin citywide as planned. In fact, I suggested that the Gotham P.D should prepare for him to do just that.

I don't know if the veteran cop believed me.

I was living on red licorice, candy canes, and energy drinks. I'd given up on sleep entirely. I barely listened to my patients in their therapy sessions. Like most Gothamites, I was glued to my television.

The public blamed the police. They blamed the courts. They blamed Arkham.

Oh, boy, did they blame Arkham. We had been given responsibility for Joker, and we had failed.

You remember that joke that made the rounds?

_How many Arkham doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb?_

_None. They lost the bulb._

_Ha ha._

Wherever I went people stared, and whispered behind my back. Inside Arkham, everyone blamed me.

I guess that was fair.

The only ally I still had was Dr. Bates. I often stopped by his office before I went home to another empty night of cable new alerts.

The weeks Joker had been gone had not been kind to Arkham's administrator. He seemed to have aged several years. I'd never seen a man break down so quickly.

"Is my career over, doctor?" I asked him, softly, one evening. Snow was falling outside his office window. In the distance we could hear sirens.

"You're young, Dr. Quinzel. You can start over. People will forget you were associated with Joker, in time. "

He sighed. "My career, however…"

I was genuinely disheartened. "Don't say that. No one blames you."

"I'm afraid the board doesn't quite see it that way, Harleen." He smiled sadly. "It looks like it'll be early retirement for me, if I'm lucky."

"That's not fair!" I was shocked how loud my voice sounded in the hush of night.

"It's not about 'fair' anymore, Harleen. It's about my letting the people of Gotham down."

"I'll speak to the board," I said quickly. "I'll tell them…I'll tell them…"

_That they never could have held Joker forever._

_That he is a force of nature._

I trailed off, and Dr. Bates laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"No, Harleen. This is not a battle you can fight. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For letting you treat Joker. It was against my better judgment, but I thought maybe…Well, it doesn't matter now. It's done. Go on home, Dr. Quinzel, before they put up the roadblocks downtown."

"I'll make it right, Dr. Bates. I will," I vowed. "You'll see."

--

I spent Christmas at Arkham. The other doctors all had families.

I didn't have anyone.

It wasn't as depressing as it sounds. There was a tree with ornaments handmade by the vocational therapy patients. We sang Christmas carols, although depending on which pharmaceutical they were on the patients all began and ended in different places.

The canteen made a small turkey for me to share with the security staff. They had agreed to work in return for double overtime pay.

If it wasn't for the muted television in the corner constantly streaming updates about the Joker across the bottom of the screen, it would have been almost jolly.

The news channels had pulled out old file footage of Joker, including some of the videos he had made himself.

It broke my heart to look at them.

No, I can't exactly say it was a merry Christmas for Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

But in the New Year things would get even worse.

--

You don't live long in Gotham City without finding out about the Batman. He wasn't exactly played up in our tourist brochures, but every local had a theory.

Since the Batman had now crossed from the realm of an urban legend to the reality of a vigilante, we Gothamites had very mixed feelings about him.

He'd killed some people in his last go-around, or at least that was the official story. He was still a wanted man. If he was, in fact, a man.

And nobody wanted a masked man running around the streets. How would we explain _that _to the tourists?

But he had been keeping an even lower profile than usual.

Most Gothamites—the law-abiding ones, anyway—had never seen him in the flesh. So for most of us, it was live and let live.

That, I suppose, is why the female security guard at the front desk started screaming bloody murder when he walked in.

In was another late evening, and yours truly was once again working at her desk. Anything was better than going home, through another series of police barriers, to that cold, sterile, empty condo.

There were less than forty-eight hours left before Joker's deadline.

But he had at least decided what he wanted.

He had made the announcement on New Year's Eve. I had watched silently with the other doctors at Arkham as the tape was broadcast over the news.

He wanted the identity of the Batman. Again.

It was that, or the whole city would get a lung full of Joker venom.

That was my Mr. J. Always aiming high.

When the screaming started I ran down from my office, joining several other staff members as we pushed and jostled out way down the main staircase.

By now the patients had joined in with the screaming. The sounds echoed around the vast space of Arkham, creating a veritable deluge of noise.

Heavily armed security staff reached the ground level first. We doctors were right behind them.

There, in all his glory, was the Batman.

And he was huge. Definitely male. Below the cowl he had probably the cruelest mouth I had ever seen.

Then the shouts went up.

"He's got the Joker!"

"It's Joker!"

"Good god!"

"Somebody get Gotham P.D. on the phone."

"How in the hell…!"

I immediately elbowed my way closer. A wide semi-circle of open space surrounded the dark figure. Nobody, not even security, wanted to get too close to him.

There, dangling from one of Batman's gloved hands, was Joker.

His brightly-colored clothes were stained and bloody. His bottom lip was torn open and dripping blood, and one eye was already swelling shut. He grinned blankly at us all, as if he wasn't yet aware where he was.

The Batman had dragged him up the stairs.

"No!"

I screamed with such force that it cut through all the talking. The people around me jumped.

I shoved harder at those in front of me.

I had to reach Mr. J.

Dr. Malone grabbed my arm and tried to hold me back, but I yanked away from him. I half-ran, half-slid across the floor.

I grabbed Joker by the shoulders, and Batman immediately released him into my arms.

I tipped Mr. J's head back and lifted the blackened lid. The pupil was fixed and dilated. A concussion, probably. As I carefully shifted him onto his back I could hear his broken ribs crunch, one against the other.

The Batman didn't even bother to look down at me. But I looked at him.

A rush of fiery red hate surged through my body. It was exhilarating. Like sex and death and pie and angels all rolled into one.

He'd done this. It was the Batman.

It.

Was.

All.

The.

Batman's.

Fault.

And, god, that felt _good_.

One of the orderlies finally came forward and helped me keep Joker still until a stretcher arrived.

When I looked up again, the Batman was gone.

--

I tended Joker's injuries myself.

The Gotham P.D. had arrived on Batman's heels, but Joker was in no shape to fight.

Even so, they weren't going to take any chances this time. Joker would not be moved to Gotham General. I guess because he'd already blown the place up once before.

None of the other doctors were willing to touch him.

So I dosed him up with painkillers, and stitched up his lip. Then I got one of the biggest security guards to hold Joker still while I taped his ribs. The other contusions could only be healed with time.

When I was finished I stepped back into the hall and removed my latex gloves

"Joker will live. But I'd feel better if we could get a head x-ray," I told Commissioner Gordon. He'd stood outside the Joker's cell with his detectives and watched the entire proceedings.

Arkham's administrators had been busy the last few months. All of the cells on the lowest floor were now outfitted with triple-thick bulletproof glass. There were extra security stations to pass through to reach the cells, each with its own guards and metal detectors.

And Arkham's guards now carried shiny new semi-automatics.

A lot of effort when we still didn't know how Joker had escaped.

"My medical training may be a bit rusty, but I still know a concussion when I see one," I reported to the assembly. "The Batman might have fractured Joker's skull."

"Any signs that he did?" The Commissioner asked

I shook my head. "Not that I could feel on the surface. But I am concerned."

I looked hopefully at Dr. Bates, but he just looked away.

_Coward._

"Look, aren't we required by law to provide a suspect with any and all medical care needed?" I demanded.

Detective Bullock snorted loudly.

Gordon shook his head. "If he's not in any immediate danger I don't want him moved. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I snapped. "But I'm not leaving him. Somebody has to keep monitoring his vitals, just in case."

"Fine."

Gordon turned to Dr. Bates. "I'm putting Joker under twenty-four hour watch. I want my own men stationed down here until the D.A. decides what she's going to do with him. The Joker doesn't so much as _breathe_ without the Gotham P.D. being notified. Understand?"

"I do." Bates nodded his head. "We're trying to find another facility, but…" He trailed off.

He didn't have to say it. No other psychiatric hospital in the country would take Joker as a patient. Not before, and certainly not now.

--

True to my word I sat next to the Joker's bed the rest of the night. Without a heart or respiration monitor all I had to go by was the steady rise and fall of his chest in the dim light.

Under the pretense of checking for injuries I lightly stroked his hair away from his face. My hand ended up smeared with white greasepaint, but I didn't mind.

Finally, finally, he opened his good eye, the one that hadn't been blackened by the Batman's fist.

I leaned down close to him, aware that the police outside the cell were watching my every move.

It took a moment for him to focus on me. Then he smiled up at me.

"Why so sad, Harley?" He asked.

It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there.

_I was in love with him._

_Damn damn damn damn damn damn…_


	5. part 5

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 5

What to do with Joker. That was the question on everybody's mind.

Including my own.

A year ago a judge had ordered him confined to Arkham for the rest of his natural life. Did Gotham City's justice system waste its time putting him on trial and sentencing him again? That was a hot topic and everyone, from the mayor on down to the local cabbies, had an opinion.

In the meantime they kept Joker in solitary confinement. No therapy sessions allowed. His cell was bugged, and the officers stationed there watched his every movement. Just as Commissioner Gordon had wanted.

The Commissioner visited Arkham several times to speak with Joker. But judging from the way Gordon's back slumped as he left the asylum, he always left empty-handed.

I have no idea what he had expected to learn.

There wasn't anything I could do but wait and watch. I didn't even try to go downstairs. The wrong word from me, the wrong look, and things might get even worse for Mr. J.

I didn't trust myself anymore.

--

A few weeks after Joker's return, Gordon finally removed his men from the asylum.

Then we got our new administrator.

No one told the staff ahead of time. One day Bates was there, and the next he wasn't.

No retirement party, not even a cake.

I would at least have gotten him a cake.

I never got to say goodbye.

Our new administrator had been hand-picked by the Board of Directors. His name was Dr. Otani. He'd been recruited from some high security facility up in Metropolis.

Before he had even set foot inside Arkham, Otani was on all the local news programs—from Good Morning Gotham to Gotham Network News' _Newsnight _program.

The first time we doctors ever saw him was when we gathered around the small television in the staff lounge. We were watching Dr. Otani's interview with Mike Engel on _Newsnight_.

"Quite the media gadfly, our new boss," Dr. Nguyen mused.

He was quickly hushed. Someone turned up the volume.

"…_so you're saying you'll bring a fresh approach to the treatment of patients at Arkham Asylum?"_

"_Absolutely, Mike."_ The doctors folded his hands into a steeple. I had to admit it, he looked good on camera. He was perhaps fifty, a bit portly, with grey hair and a beard. He looked very distinguished. Very smooth.

"_I think what we all have to understand is that these people—the type of people who end up at Arkham--aren't typical mental patients. In fact, I've coined a new term to describe them. Supervillains. Combining the worse characteristics of mental illness with a propensity for—one might almost say an addiction to--crime."_

Engel was looking extremely earnest. _"Fascinating. How do you treat someone like that?"_

"_Well, first and foremost that individual must be isolated from society. The goal is not reformation, so much as containment."_

I imagined that I could hear the entire civilian population of Gotham applauding. Dr. Otani certainly knew how to play to his target audience.

"_But in Metropolis I made great strides in easing their symptoms. There are many tools at a psychiatrist's disposal, Mike, although most of them are not well understood by the general public. For example, my research has shown that ECT, or electro-convulsive shock therapy, can be quite effective in dampening these criminal impulses."_

"_Without permanent injury?"_

"_Of course. The shock just helps to re-set the brain, making it easier for the patient to control their urges."_

""Control their urges.' How very nineteenth century," I mocked loudly. "Why don't we start trepanning our patients again, too?"1

"_And treatment like you're describing, it can help even the most hardened cases? People like, say, the Joker?" _

Engel looked a bit pale as he said this, and I remembered that he had had his own run-in with Mr. J. many months earlier. I had a sudden vision of him smeared with red lipstick, reading Joker's statement to the camera.

It was all I could do not to laugh.

"_I believe it can, yes."_

"_Well, we certainly are glad to have you in Gotham City, Dr. Otani." _Engel turned to face the camera again_. "Coming up after the break, we'll be taking your calls. Stay tuned."_

Dr. Justi turned down the volume as a commercial for rental cars came on the air.

"Well, he's…interesting," she said.

"He can't actually be thinking of bringing those sorts of methods to Arkham," I protested. "We're an asylum. We're supposed to help people."

"It may have escaped your notice, Dr. Quinzel, but we haven't been an 'asylum' for quite some time." Dr. Malone looked solemn. "We're a facility for the criminally insane. We may as well start acting like it."

"You two can't possibly agree with that." I looked at Dr. Justi and Dr. Nguyen. Neither one would meet my eyes.

"You mean we're all just supposed to go along with this? Our patients _trust_ us."

"Yeah, right. Our patients would as soon slit our throats as look at us," Dr. Justi countered. "You know that as well as we do, Harleen, so get off your high horse."

"You know," Dr. Nguyen said thoughtfully. "I read somewhere that back in the 1940s Arkham was a regular stop on the demonstration tours "Dr. Lobotomy" used to take across the country."2

We all stared at him.

"Hey, I'm just saying." He shrugged.

"I cannot believe I'm hearing any of this. You people make me sick."

I wasn't kidding. I felt physically ill as I slammed out of the room.

I had to get out of this place. This horrible, horrible place…

I was halfway down the main stairs when I heard someone calling my name.

It was Commissioner Gordon. He was standing just a few stairs below me, coming up the other way. I'd been so agitated I hadn't seen him coming.

"I'm afraid now isn't a good time, Commissioner."

I tried to get past him, but he blocked me.

This was clearly not my day.

"Just a moment of your time, Doctor, that's all. Please."

I sighed. "All right, if you insist."

He smiled. "Thank you."

He pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket.

"I just wanted to ask you something. About Joker."

I felt cold all over, and yet sweat began to drip down the back of my neck.

"Yes? Has he said something in his interviews with you?"

Gordon didn't understand the meaning behind the question.

"Nothing useful, I'm afraid. No, I wanted to ask about something in a report one of my officers submitted. It's about the night Batman brought the Joker back to Arkham. You may recall we had men stationed outside his cell all night."

I felt even clammier. "I remember."

"Well, one of the officers made a note of something he thought was a bit strange. It's probably nothing, but I make a point of reviewing all the official reports that cross my desk. I'm sure you understand."

I wondered idly if I had enough strength in my hands to strangle Gordon. I wanted to. I really did.

"This officer noted that when Joker regained consciousness he said something to you. You were, of course, inside the cell while my man was on the outside, but he'd swear he heard the Joker called you, uh…" Gordon took another look at his notes.

"Harley."

_Oh hell._

Gordon looked at me carefully. "Can you explain that?"

I made sure to stay quite still. No sudden moves.

"I can, actually." I was surprised my voice sounded so calm.

"My first name is Harleen. I sometimes allowed Joker to call me that in our sessions."

When Gordon raised his eyebrows I tried to smile knowingly.

"That's not unusual in my profession, Commissioner. The use of first names can help create trust between patient and therapist. Anyway, I believe your officer must have misheard, that's all."

Gordon watched me for a long moment. Finally he nodded slowly.

"That makes sense, I suppose."

My smile was brittle.

"I'm glad to have cleared this matter up for you, Mr. Gordon."

"Yes. Thank you for your time, Dr. Quinzel."

He let me proceed past him on the stairs.

Then I was struck by a sudden thought.

"Commissioner, wait."

He paused and looked quizzically at me.

"Yes?"

"Commissioner, I thought I should ask, while you're here and all, if I might be permitted to speak to Mr. Joker. Oh," I held up a hand, "I know you're not allowing psychotherapy or anything like that. But we had been meeting twice a week for almost a year. As his doctor, I would like to explain to him why he isn't seeing me anymore."

Gordon sighed. "I'm afraid that's not my call to make. That will be up to Arkham's new administrator, Dr. Otani."

"But the Gotham P.D. would have no objections?"

_Don't look too eager, Harleen._

_Play it cool._

"No, Dr. Quinzel, the Gotham P.D. wouldn't object."

I smiled again. This one was genuine.

"Thank you, Commissioner. Please, don't let me keep you."

_Closure, Harleen. That's all you're after. Remember that._

_Yeah. Closure._

--

Dr. Otani was hanging a photograph of himself with the mayor of Metropolis on the wall of his new office.

"Does this look straight to you?" He asked me.

"Yes," I lied blithely.

He put up the picture and walked over to his desk. I couldn't help but notice he'd cleared out every trace of Dr. Bates. Even the furniture was brand-new, made of some shiny, dark wood. It looked intimidating and uncomfortable, and it probably cost more than my annual salary.

He shuffled some papers.

"Let's see, Dr., uh…

"_Quinzel_. Harleen _Quinzel_."

It was the third time I'd said it since I'd come into the room.

"Oh, yes, of course. The Joker's assigned therapist." He winked. "I'll bet you have stories to tell, eh?"

I stared at him coldly.

When he realized I wasn't going to talk, he cleared his throat.

"Well, then. How can I help you?"

I went over my request again. I wanted a meeting with Joker. Just five minutes. So I could update him about the changes to his treatment plan. That was all.

I'd already submitted the request to my new boss in writing. But evidently he hadn't received it. Or maybe it was buried under the books of fabric samples piled on the chairs. Looked like Dr. Otani's office was getting new drapes, too.

He didn't think about it for more than a moment or two.

"Of course. Pop down for a few minutes and tell Mr. Joker you've been taken off his case."

I went very still. My heart fluttered for a moment in my chest, and then seemed to stop beating entirely.

"Taken off his case? What do you mean? We stopped meeting only because Gotham P.D. wanted Joker in solitary confinement. I'm still his therapist."

He smiled apologetically. "Actually, you're not. I'm sorry, I thought they told you already."

I had no idea who "they" were.

"I went over your case files and some of your articles—good stuff, by the way. The whole _folie á deux _thing?The public eats that kind of thing up, you know. I mean, the idea that one person's madness could literally rub off on another person…Priceless. But I've decided that an extreme case like Joker needs a more experienced hand. So I'm going to be working with him from now on."

"I really don't think…"

He waved me away.

"The Board's already approved my decision, Dr. Quinzel. You'll get your new patient roster in a day or two. Good day."

I was numb. I was also back out in the hallway without remembering how I got there.

_Poor Mr. J_, I thought.

Then, a second later:

_Poor Dr. Otani. Mr. J is going to eat him alive._

_Yeah? _

_Good._

_--_

I straightened my white coat and smoothed back my bun as I went downstairs.

I wasn't going to cry. That wasn't going to do me or Mr. J any good.

I consoled myself with the fact that I wasn't the first doctor who ever fell in love with her patient. It was a well-known phenomenon, and had been documented for centuries.

Sometimes caring for a patient's body and mind nurtured…other feelings.

The only thing different in my story was Joker's uniquely extreme personality, and my own almost instinctual response to him.

But it wasn't the end of the world. I just had to make a clean break from him, and move on with my life.

The security guards knew me by sight, of course, so all I had to do was hold up my badge to be admitted onto the lowest floor. The multiple gates were locked behind me.

I paid no attention to the occupants of the other cells, instead heading for the one at the very end, on the left hand side.

I wondered idly if anyone had realized they'd put Joker back in the same cell he'd escaped from before.

Oh, well. That wasn't my problem, not anymore.

I was a bit surprised to see a guard I recognized sitting on a chair just to the right of the cell. He'd leaned his chair casually against the glass, but as soon as he saw me coming all four chair legs hit the ground and he jumped to his feet.

"Oh, Dr. Quinzel, it's you."

It was Smithee, the same guard who'd brought me Joker for our very first session. He now wore a bulletproof vest over his black uniform. He had his new semi-automatic at his side. But he didn't look any brighter than he had before. Just more heavily armed.

"I have permission from Dr. Otani to speak with Mr. Joker for a few minutes."

"Yeah, he called it down a few moments ago."

I looked through the glass.

Joker was sitting on the edge of his bed. He didn't look up.

"And I want the audio recorder shut off while I'm in there."

Smithee's forehead broke out in a sweat. "Uh, what audio recorder?"

"Don't waste my time," I cautioned him. "I know Dr. Otani never had Gotham P.D.'s bugs removed from Joker's cell."

That had been a guess, actually. But I could tell by the way he blanched that I was right.

_Bastards. They really were all bastards. Joker was right._

_He was turning out to have been right about a lot of things._

I kept my voice very low. But when I spoke again Smithee hung on every word.

"Get down to the security station and switch it off, or I'll have the ACLU on your butt so fast you won't know what hit you. And don't think Dr. Otani wouldn't sell you out in a second, because you know he would."

The big man's shoulders slumped.

"Yes, ma'am."

He hurried away.

I waited a few more minutes until I saw Smithee give me the thumbs up from the security desk at the end of the hall. His smile looked nervous and sickly.

I'd scared him badly enough that I felt confident he'd done as he was told.

I didn't return his smile.

Instead I waited for the rumbling click of the cell door locks disengaging. Once I heard it, I slid back the heavy door and stepped inside.

I took Smithee's chair with me. I didn't think it would be safe to sit on Joker's bed.

"Hello, Mr. J."

He finally deigned to glance up as I set the chair in front of him and sat down.

I could see now that he had been shuffling a deck of playing cards in his left hand. What idiot had given him playing cards? He loved playing cards.

"Ah, Dr. Quinzel. There you are. I thought you'd left me."

"No, Mr. J. Gotham P.D's orders, I'm afraid."

He paused and drew out one card between his thumb and forefinger. He studied it for a moment and then folded it back into the deck. His tongue flicked absently at the scars on the edges of his mouth.

"That Commissioner Gordon is a real piece of work, isn't he?" He asked in a conversational tone.

I nodded in agreement.

"I missed you while I was gone, you know," he told me.

Oh, god. I really did _not_ want to hear that. If I could have stuck my fingers in my ears without looking childish, I would have.

"I doubt that," I countered nervously.

He seemed a bit hurt.

"I did. I really did." He raked his free hand through his greenish hair. "You have no idea the level of people I have to work with out there." He gestured vaguely upwards. "Plenty of muscle, but very little brains."

He shook his head sadly. "Not worth having a conversation with any of them. Not like you. We had good talks, didn't we, Harley?"

His head was tilted down, but he looked up at me with his strange half-smile.

It was beginning again. That hold he had over me. Why else would his complement made me so suddenly and so inexplicably happy?

"We did, Mr. J."

"And, of course, they're not much to look at, either. You beat them there, too, hands down."

_I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I could have left right then. Then maybe things might have turned out differently for me._

_You weren't there._

_Trust me._

_It was already much too late for that._

"Thank you. I think."

"I meant to send you flowers again, but I think I forgot." He looked apologetic. "I forgot, didn't I?"

"That's all right, Mr. J. You were busy."

"Hmm." He finally set down the deck of cards next to him on the thin prison blanket.

"Mr. J, I need you to focus for a minute, so I can tell you something important." I took a deep breath. My chest ached.

"They're not going to let me be your therapist anymore. Arkham's new administrator wants to work with you himself."

"Dr. Otani." He smiled at my startled expression.

"Don't look so surprised, Harley. I hear things, even down here."

"I'm so sorry."

He looked genuinely puzzled. "For what?"

"For all of it. For not…helping you. It's my fault you're still here. It's my fault Dr. Otani's going to…to…"

I was babbling, and I knew it.

"Harley."

It was only one word, but his voice cut through me like a knife.

I abruptly closed my mouth.

"Give me your hand."

Without trepidation I gave him my right hand, and he took it in his own.

He wasn't allowed to have his gloves in Arkham.

The skin-to-skin contact made my whole body sizzle.

He leaned towards me until our foreheads almost touched. I could feel his breath against my cheek.

"I don't blame you, Harl. Other people are responsible, and they _will_ be held accountable. But not you," he said.

I nodded reluctantly.

"Now, let me see you smile."

I didn't feel like it, but I did my best to oblige.

That pleased him.

"There you go," he told me. "There's my pretty Harley Quinn."

Joker let go of my hand.

Smithee's hulking figure appeared at the cell door. He pointed apologetically at his watch.

"Looks like our time's up, doc." Joker leaned back and picked up his deck of cards again.

I stood and went back over to the glass. Smithee opened it for me.

"Goodbye, Mr. J," I whispered.

"See you around, Dr. Quinzel," he said.

He started shuffling the deck from hand to hand, the cards a blur of motion.

The cell door closed behind me.

I couldn't wait any longer.

I ran.

--

1 Trepanning is a nasty little procedure that involves drilling holes in people's heads. It's quite rare now, but it used to be remarkably common and was used to "treat" all sorts of things, including mental illness. Harley is, of course, being sarcastic here.

2"Dr. Lobotomy" was a real person, Dr. Walter Freeman, and he really did tour the country in a "lobotomobile" (his words) demonstrating the procedure. You can't make this kind of stuff up, folks.


	6. part 6: The Breakout

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 6

Author's note, part 1: Avid Harley fans will note that towards the end of this chapter I do veer off-canon a bit. Please see my comments at the end if you would like to know why. Enjoy.

--

Throughout human history we have debated the nature of madness. Where it came from, its possible causes, and why it is nearly impossible to completely cure.

In some civilizations madness was viewed as a curse. In others, it was a blessing from the gods.

As a doctor, I had always assumed that madness came on gradually. Perhaps it started out with some sort of personality quirk, or odd little habit. Over time, that quirk or habit could grow into something more serious, like a bout of depression or suicidal thoughts.

Only if left untreated over many years would it spiral down into full blown mental illness.

That was the theory.

I was learning that the reality was something quite different.

Madness was like a roller coaster.

It happened so _fast_.

You were at the top, you knew the plunge was coming, but it wasn't in your power to stop it. You weren't even sure you wanted to stop it.

That's how it was for me, anyway.

But, then, maybe I'd never been truly sane to begin with.

--

I called in sick to work the day after I met with Mr. J.

I called in sick the two days after that.

I lay curled in a ball on my living room floor.

Outside the run rose and set, rose and set.

And then, finally, I knew what I had to do.

--

I was cheerful as I hopped up the stairs to the asylum.

It was a beautiful late winter evening. The moon was waxing. Tonight it was a crescent.

Like a smile.

As I passed by the glassed-in security booth the night guard waved to me.

"Dr. Quinzel! I heard you've been out sick. That flu that's going around?"

I paused.

"'Fraid so. But I'm feeling much better now. Thought I'd come in tonight and get a jump on tomorrow's paperwork."

The guard's name was Stanley. Retired cop. Nice old guy.

I help up the cardboard tray in my hands.

"I picked up a bunch of coffees at Gotham Grounds. Want one?"

He took a quick glance over at his security monitors.

"I've got a double mocha with your name on it," I tempted.

Stanley grinned.

"Yeah, sure. You're a lifesaver. These graveyard shifts are a killer."

He hit the buzzer that gave me access to the booth. I slipped through the door and handed him his treat.

"Quiet tonight?" I asked politely.

"Always is, lately."

He drained most of the cup in one gulp.

"Ah. That hit the spot. Thanks, doc."

"My pleasure."

I watched as his eyes went out of focus.

"Huh. Suddenly I don't feel too good. Guess I drank that too fast."

His speech was beginning to slur.

I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he tried to rise.

"Then you'd better sit down, Stanley. You'll feel better in a moment."

A few seconds later he slumped over his desk.

_No, gentle reader, I didn't poison him. It was just a nice big dose of __benzodiazepine. _

_You probably know it better by its brand name, Rohypnol. _

_I was saving the stronger stuff in my bag for later. _

I felt his pulse. Strong and steady.

If I were a more patient gal I suppose I could have figured out how to shut down each monitor and recorder in the booth, and then disconnect the electrical lines connecting them to the video cameras all over Arkham.

But I am not a patient gal.

So instead I crawled under the desk with my sharp little scissors.

_Snip snip. _

The monitors went black, and the digital recorders on the shelves below them stopped turning.

For all intents and purposes, Arkham Asylum was now blind.

_Oh. That was kinda fun._

_Ya think?_

_Eleven ten, Harley. Let's check our timing, shall we?_

_Don't mind if I do._

I left the remaining coffees in the booth, in case Stanley wanted them later.

Then I bounced up the stairs to my office.

--

I waited by my office window, and watched the hands on my watch tick past.

At eleven fifteen exactly, I heard it.

Distant, and muffled—my condo was clear across town, of course.

But I could see the plume of smoke rising on the horizon, and clapped my hands.

_I was a natural._

The point of ignition for the explosion was the file boxes in my bedroom closet. But the blast, and the fire that followed, was so big that nothing in the place would be salvageable, or even recognizable.

Amazing what you can learn on the Internet these days.

I sat down and waited, patiently, for ten more minutes to pass.

--

My office required something a little less subtle.

Homemade explosives, with a baby-sized digital timer for the countdown. All ingredients and parts available at your corner drugstore.

I place one on top of my desk, and the other in the center of the floor. I set the timers, and took one good last look around.

Then I stepped back into the hall, and locked the door behind me.

I wasn't to the end of the hall before they went off.

I managed to stay on my feet as the whole building rocked.

The door to my office was blown clean across the hall. A second later tongues of flames began licking their way out of the room.

Turns out homemade incendiary devices work pretty well, especially when you add in a nice concussive charge. Like chocolate and peanut butter, when combined they were greater than the sum of their parts.

_Yummy._

As I hurried back down the stairs, I passed a few of the security guards rushing up the other way. Alarms across the asylum were started to ring.

Too bad Gotham's emergency services would be busy on the other side of town.

The guards didn't even try to stop me. I suppose they thought I was evacuating.

I wasn't, of course. Instead I went down to Arkham's lowest level.

--

At the base of the stairs I nearly ran headlong into another one of the security guards outside his station. He was shifting nervously from one foot to the other, looking like he was trying to decide whether or not to stay.

"Doctor? What's happening?" He asked me.

"A fire, I think."

"Jesus," he breathed. "My partner's up there."

He reached over for the wall-mounted phone. He held the receiver to his ear for a moment, and then banged it back into its cradle.

"There's no dial tone." He leaned heavily on his desk, finger splayed.

"I suppose the fire may have taken out the line," I said absently as I reached into my bag.

"That fast?"

"Or I suppose someone might have cut them. That's also a possibility. But don't worry."

I patted his hand reassuringly.

His eyes widened, and he looked down.

There was a hypodermic needle sticking out of the back of his hand.

A second later he was out cold.

I was so close to Mr. J now that I'd decided to pull out the big guns. Phenobarbital. Well below the toxic dose, but enough to take down a good-sized horse.

--

Just past the second set of gates I ran into another guard.

Fortunately I had the element of surprise. A quick jab of the needle and he went down almost as fast as his friend had.

But just in case, I picked up this one's gun. I took off the safety and balanced it on my left hip. I carried another loaded syringe in my free hand.

Since this was the bottom floor, the oldest part of the former Arkham estate, sound from above was muffled. I knew most of the security guards would have been called away from their posts to evacuate the patients.

No one had yet arrived to try and evacuate the high-security wing. I would be surprised if anyone did.

I reached Joker's cell and tapped politely on the glass.

He wasn't sleeping.

He seemed to know instantly why I was there.

He smiled sweetly at me.

_Ah, Mr. J__…_

"Dr. Quinzel? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I looked over and immediately recognized the bulky figure.

"Smithee. We need to stop meeting like this."

His gun was leveled at me. "Step away from the cell door, Doctor."

I wasn't afraid.

But _his_ voice was shaking.

I sighed heavily.

"You know, I'm getting a bit tired of people getting in my way tonight."

I took two steps towards him.

"Stay where you are," he ordered.

"Make up your mind, Smithee," I said politely. "Do you want me over here, or over there?"

He stared at me. "What's gotten into you, Dr. Quinzel? Why are you doing this?"

"Oh, that's a long story, and I wouldn't want to bore you."

I threw down the hypodermic and leveled my own gun at him, cupping the butt of the weapon in my other hand, just as I'd learned to do years ago.

Using a gun is like riding a bicycle. Just something you never forget how to do.

We were now standing ten feet apart, guns leveled at each other.

I could see the distorted faces of the other patients pressed up against their cell doors.

"Don't move, doctor, I mean it," the guard threatened. "I will shoot."

We were both holding the same model semi-automatic hand gun. But his hands were so slippery with sweat I could tell he was having trouble even holding on to his.

I took a step closer without moving my eye from the gun sights..

"Don't move," he croaked again.

"Tell me something, Smithee," I began in a conversational tone. "When the Board of Administrators gave the guards all of these nice, shiny new guns, did they ever teach you how to use them?"

His face went white.

_Don't bother with the head, Harley. That only works in movies._

_Shut up._

_I know what I'm doing._

I had the sights leveled at his throat, where it protruded above the bullet-proof vest. I could see his jugular vein bulging with every beat his heart took.

"For the last time, put the gun down, Dr. Quinzel! Damn it, we trusted you," he yelled.

"Then let this be a lesson to you," I told him.

I smiled, dropped my sights, and fired two rounds into his left shin.

Not fatal, but very, very painful. And debilitating, too.

He screamed in anguish, clutching at the wound as he dropped to the ground. The pain of bone shattering had made him reflexively drop his own weapon.

I kicked his gun to the other end of the hall and went back to work.

I'd made a special explosive for this job. A little charge, concussion only. This one also had a nice, sticky backing, just perfect for attaching it to that triple-thick glass.

I got out of the way.

So did Mr. J.

I put my fingers in my ears.

When it detonated, it not only shattered the glass cell door but all the others ones, up and down the hallway. A shower of blunt-edged safety glass fell like rain.

_Cool__._

The other cell occupants, abruptly liberated, rushed past me for the exits. Their feet crunched on glass fragments that sparkled under the sickly overhead lights.

I headed for the exit myself, but instead of turning right to go up the stairs, I turned left.

I wasn't going to leave Arkham.

I wasn't ever going to leave Arkham.

--

_Oh, wait, you thought Mr. J and I rode off into the sunset__ together? _

_That may have been how the papers later spun it. But that's not how it happened. _

I don't know what happened to Mr. J after I blasted away his cell door.

I can tell you he didn't follow me.

I knew Mr. J would be fine. I was sure his instinct for self-preservation would get him out of the building in time.

I was headed for the very center of the asylum, an area of the building where there were no cells. Only the massive brick columns that supported the weight of the many floors.

When Arkham had been a mansion, this had been the boiler room. Multiple furnaces had provided heat to the great stone pile. The family had also stored coal here for fuel.

It had been the nerve center of the house. Now there were only cobwebs and a few threadbare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. The doors to the non-functional boilers had rusted off their hinges. They gaped open like broken teeth in a rotting mouth.

I carefully laid out what I needed to do the job.

I set the timer for only a few seconds.

This was the resolution I had reached.

To destroy Arkham. Even if it took me with it.

Maybe then I would have peace.

_I'm__ so very, very tired…_

_--_

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply of coal and brick dust, the debris of ages.

The bomb detonated.

Then everything went black.

--

I opened my eyes.

I felt the heat of flames around me, licking at the edges of the pile of broken wood and crumbled brick on which I lay.

A heavy beam that had once helped support the floor above now lay across me. But it didn't seem to have injured anything vital. I could still breathe, and wiggle my fingers and toes.

I couldn't move, but I wasn't in any pain.

It looked like it was going to be a slow death, then.

_Ah, well._

_It's not like it had been much of a life, really._

I laid my head back down.

And then, as if conjured by the fire itself, a dark figure loomed over me.

It had slits for eyes. They glowed yellow in the smoky darkness.

The beam was lifted away.

I was free.

"No!" I screamed, trying to push those terrible black hands away.

The figure didn't care.

It lifted me up into its arms.

That's when I felt the pain. I guess I was hurt, after all.

I blacked out.

And was thus spared the ignominy of being rescued by the Batman.

--

I blinked my eyes open.

Closed.

Open.

Closed.

I could hear people talking.

At first it was just noise.

Then I could make out phrases.

"…_got the fire out, but the lower floor is probably a total loss…"_

"…_she seemed fine…A psychiatrist, for god's sake! I don't understand…"_

"…_captured two of the high-security inmates before they got too far. Mad Hatter can't run too fast, and Poison Ivy got distracted by some rose bushes long enough to slow her down. But Dent and Killer Croc are long gone. And Joker is, too…"_

That was all I needed to hear.

--

Author's note, pt. 2: There are at least two versions of the "Arkham breakout" scene that I am aware of. In the _Mad Love/Batman: The Animated Series_ telling, Harley broke out Joker and they took off together. When Harley was introduced into DC canon, she helped Joker escape from the asylum and then was almost immediately found out and incarcerated in Arkham herself. Her reunion with her beloved Mr. J only comes later.

I can live with the first version, although it's a bit plain for my taste. The second version troubles me, though, because (as you can probably gauge from this story) I've always thought of Harley Quinn as smarter than that. I believe she is a reasonably intelligent woman who often chooses to play dumb. She is unwise, certainly; she is loyal to a fault, absolutely; and she is often terribly naïve to boot--but she is not stupid. And after being smart enough to successfully break Joker out of a place like Arkham Asylum, to get caught so quickly is, in a word, stupid.

So I tried to weave a little more psychological complexity into what happened that night by blending the two versions together to make something new. Is the result chocolate and peanut butter, or more like chocolate and sardines? Only you can be the judge.


	7. part 7

The Ballad of Harley Quinn

Part 7

The next time I opened my eyes I was in the hospital.

Even though the room was dark, I could just make out the shapes of medical equipment hunching in the shadows. My head hurt. My ribs hurt. My lungs hurt.

I listened to the steady beeping of my heart monitor. The IV in the back of my hand itched fiercely. But I didn't try to move.

Then I saw him.

_Him._

The Batman.

He was on the other side of the room. He was just standing there.

Watching me.

I closed my eyes. How I hated him.

_It was his fault. All his fault._

_Yes…_

--

The doctors said I was in a fugue state.

I know because I could hear them discussing my case. My body didn't respond to any stimulus they provided, and I wasn't speaking. But my ears were just fine, thank you.

A fugue wouldn't have been my diagnosis. I wasn't moving from one personality to another.

I knew perfectly well who I was.

I was Harley Quinn.

I had always been Harley Quinn. It was Harleen Quinzel who had been the imposter. I saw that now.

And I would always be indebted to Joker for opening my eyes.

--

Obviously they couldn't incarcerate me in Arkham. I may not have succeeded in leveling the place, but I'd done enough damage to make it unusable for the time being.

Besides, Arkham wasn't equipped to deal with a case like mine. Its medical facilities were positively medieval. So instead the police department decided to keep me under guard at Gotham General.

I was placed in a straight-jacket. My feet were strapped to the bed.

Rather extraordinary precautions for a patient who wasn't moving on her own, don't you think?

But I took it as a complement.

They thought I was dangerous.

And I agreed.

--

Sometimes a day or two would pass while I slept.

I would open my eyes to find different members of the nursing staff in the room, tending to me. They weren't allowed to remove the straight-jacket or the straps under any circumstances. But they still sponged my arms and face, and forced spoonfuls of nutritious goo down my throat. The care was cold, but efficient. Bless their hearts.

In between I heard enough bits and pieces of information to know that a turf war of sorts had erupted over my case.

The dread Dr. Otani had put himself in charge of my care. As you can imagine, I wasn't thrilled, but I wasn't about to start talking. Not yet.

As you well know, I don't like Commissioner Gordon. But at least _he_ was an intelligent man.

He didn't like Dr. Otani, either.

On one occasion I awoke to find them both in my room, having a heated argument about something. I listened with half an ear.

"…need her awake and alert. If anyone knows anything about the Joker's whereabouts, she does."

"I assure you, Commissioner, we are keeping Dr. Quinzel sedated for her own good."

_Sedated. Ah. That explained the lovely, long naps. It felt to me like Phenobarbital, maybe with a nice Lorazepam chaser._

"A patient in a fugue state must not be allowed to emerge too quickly. But if you're that concerned I can have her switched to oral dosages. That way when I decide she's ready I can easily wean her off them."

"She's going to need to be alert to stand trial."

"Stand trial? With all due respect, Mr. Gordon, no jury in the world would convict my patient. She's clearly not competent to stand trial."

"Yes, I know all about 'your patients,' Doctor. The Metropolis P.D. had some choice words about how your 'patients' always seemed to wiggle out of being charged with anything."

"I don't know what you're implying, Commissioner," Otani began to huff. "My medical practice has always been completely above board…"

I went back to sleep.

--

After a few weeks I began to get bored.

Playing invalid was fun, but I was ready to move on.

Once they switched me to oral sedatives, it was only too easy.

I complacently let them put the pills in my mouth and took the swig of water I was offered.

But I didn't swallow them. Once the nurses left the room I spit the pills down the inside of the straight-jacket.

It made me feel a little clammy down in there, but it worked.

Once I was in my right mind again, it didn't take me long to come up with a plan.

My next project was getting out of the straight-jacket itself.

People in the movies did it all the time.

It took me many nights, and I finally had to dislocate my own left arm to do it, but I got out.

I had to reset the shoulder by banging into the wall behind my bed. That was not fun.

Then I carefully refastened my ankle straps, keeping them so loose I would be able to easily wriggle out of them again when the time came. I did the same with the straightjacket.

I was ready.

Now I was just waiting for the perfect moment.

Then I would be free.

And I would be with Mr. J again.

--

_Epilogue_

Dr. Tony Bates taped the last box shut and paused to rub his lower back.

Packing up a life's worth of debris had been harder than he'd thought it would be. But as he looked around his nearly empty living room, he did feel a sense of satisfaction.

The spacious house where he now stood, a stone's throw from the Palisades, had already been sold. In a few days a growing family would be moving in.

He wished them all the luck in the world. Hopefully they'd be happier here than he had been.

He walked over to the open French doors and took a deep breath of the night air. From his balcony he had a nice view of the city spread out below him. Gotham's lights twinkled like diamonds against the night sky.

The severance package he'd received from Arkham's board in return for retiring early (and quietly) wasn't much. But it was enough to start over some place far from Gotham City. Blüdhaven was too close—he was thinking Metropolis, or maybe even Star City.

He walked back over to the fireplace and rubbed absently at a spot on the white mantel. He'd get a smaller place this time, but with a backyard where he could grow some vegetables. Maybe get a dog…

Movement in the mirror over the mantelpiece caught his eye. He whirled around.

A figure separated itself from the shadows and stepped forward.

"Bat—Batman?" Dr. Bates' mouth fell open in disbelief.

"I want to speak to you, Dr. Bates," the cowled figure said.

"With me?"

Bates had worked at Arkham for almost twenty years, with some of the worst criminals in modern society. But he'd never felt the sense of dread he felt at this moment, as the Batman spoke. In front of the tall, masked vigilante, he felt as if he was standing before a throne of judgment, and being found wanting.

The doctor suppressed a shudder.

"Dr. Quinzel has escaped from Gotham General."

"Oh, god." Bates sighed and sat down heavily on one of his packing boxes. "When?"

"We don't know for sure. Somehow she was able to overpower and drug one of the nurses, and left her strapped to the bed in her place. They were similar enough in physical appearance that Quinzel was able to just walk out of the hospital in the nurse's uniform. The substitution wasn't discovered until early this morning, when the nurse regained consciousness and started screaming.

"That poor woman." Bates wasn't sure if he was referring to the nurse, or to Harleen.

He rubbed his face with his hands.

"They wouldn't let me see Harleen, you know," he told Batman. "I tried, but Dr. Otani said she was his patient now."

"I know." The Batman stood like a silent sentinel.

"Jesus. There's something more you have to tell me, isn't there?"

"The Gotham police believe that Dr. Quinzel is long gone."

Bates nodded in understanding. "But you don't."

"I believe she is still in Gotham City. And that she will try and find Joker again."

"If she wants to, she will." Bates stood and paced idly back and forth. "I don't imagine you ever met Dr. Quinzel, Batman. But she is one of the most singularly determined young women that I have ever met." He paused. "Joker will hurt her, won't he? Kill her?"

"I never try to predict what Joker will or won't do," the Batman told him. "But one way or another, yes, Dr. Quinzel will get hurt."

Bates was struck with another realization.

"And if he doesn't hurt her, you might."

"If Dr. Quinzel becomes one of Joker's accomplices, I'll do whatever it takes to bring her to justice."

"If she does succeed in finding Joker, she'll be a great deal more than just his accomplice, Batman. I believe she thinks she's in love with him."

"The Joker isn't capable of love," Batman said flatly.

Bates raised his eyebrows. "That's your diagnosis, is it? I worked with Joker since the first day he came to Arkham, Batman. I don't believe I ever met a more twisted and damaged individual. But on that particular subject I'm afraid we'll just have to agree to disagree."

The doctor walked back to the window. The night that had looked so clear and sparkling moments before now looked cold and ominous.

"Harleen said it wasn't my fault, you know. Not any of it. But I find I can't agree with her on that subject. I was the one who hired her. I'll blame myself until the day I die."

The Batman offered no words of consolation, no absolution.

Instead he asked a question.

"In your professional opinion, was Harleen Quinzel mentally ill before she met Joker, Dr. Bates? Or did he drive her to it?"

"Batman, if I could tell you the answer to that I would be a very rich man. But I think there must have been something…broken inside Harleen. Something from her childhood, maybe. Something no one else could see."

"Joker saw it. And used it to his advantage."

"Yes, Batman. Joker saw it. But as to his using Harleen…" Bates trailed off, deep in thought.

The Batman waited.

After a long moment the doctor continued.

"I don't think I can try and predict Joker's behavior any more than you can, Batman. But all of my training suggests that as much as he may be filling a need for Dr. Quinzel, she may fill one for him, too. In time, he may well become as dependant on her as she seems to be on him."

"_Folie á deux_. The madness of two."

"Yes, Batman. _Folie á deux_, indeed."

Bates was impressed. Clearly this man was no mere vigilante. The psychiatrist in him couldn't help but be intrigued. He turned to search for a piece of paper.

"Batman, if you don't mind me asking…"

But when he turned around the Batman was gone.

The End.

--

Author's note: And thus ends our adventure, kiddies. Thanks to all of you who provided supportive feedback on what was one of the most difficult fanfics I ever wrote.

There are of course two major schools of thoughts on Harley Quinn. One, that she was mentally ill before she ever met Joker; two, that he drove her mad for his own amusement. Both camps have their proponents. Personally, I believe that like so many things in the HQ/J story, the answer probably lies somewhere in between.

If I can find the time with school starting again, I may continue this tale in a new story that would cover Harley Quinn's first year as the Joker's main squeeze.

So stay tuned. Same Bat time, same Bat channel. XOXO


End file.
